


Blue

by LauraRose



Series: The Dark Shades of BDSM [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Blood, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Cock & Ball Torture, Cutting, Dark BDSM, Heavy Angst, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Pain, crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraRose/pseuds/LauraRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it all goes wrong, Q turns to the one man who can make it right. Sometimes it takes more than a beating to break through grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS
> 
> I wrote this when triggered and tearful and feeling pissed off at the world and everything in it. 
> 
> There are: 
> 
> References to Self harm  
> ‘Potential’ Torture  
> Dubious consent – My beta and I were not sure so I flagged it up.  
> Blood.  
> Cutting.

Shooting. Screaming. Bleeding. Dying. 

 

Q stared at the screen, horror written on his face.

 

“004,” he said in a shaky voice. “004, report in…” It was a fruitless effort. 

 

Q branch was silent, every single set of eyes on their leader as he failed… as he failed one of their own, failed a double oh. Not one of the new recruits, one of the old timers that had been around since the dawn of time, a dinosaur. One of the greats, of those who never failed…

 

Who had been failed. 

 

Q started to shake, his face going a nasty shade of grey. R saw the shock in his leader and moved to take over. Without saying a word, he took off the head set and let it drop to the floor, with a small crash. 

 

Numb, Q turned and started back to his office. Someone called his name, told him that he needed to go and see Mallory… that they needed a plan, because these bastards needed to be eradicated. They needed to be wiped from the face of the earth - 

 

The tirade of his minion, who was obviously in floods of tears, was cut off as he hooked his foot behind the door of his office and allowed it to close behind him. 

 

He sat at his desk, and stared blankly at the screen. He stared at the scream, showing the blueprints of the building, the camera feed and the body on the floor that was being searched… dragged away…

 

Q turned and vomited into his waste paper basket, bringing up the emotions that felt stuck, felt trapped in him… and the guilt. The unspeakable guilt because although it was one of his agents, it was not  his agent… and that was the one person in the world who he wanted to talk to right now, and it was the one person who was under deep cover, infiltrating a terrorist cell. 

 

He sent a text to the phone that his agent was using to ‘send messages’ to his operatives in London. To send messages to Q so they could stop trouble before it began over here. He picked up his phone and sent three simple words. 

 

I lost one

 

He had to wait less than a minute before he got a response, and the words brought tears to his eyes. 

 

I am coming home. 

 

Selfish as Q felt he was… He needed James, he needed to be held together, because he was about to fracture and he knew it. There was a knock on his door, and Q slid slowly out the chair and onto the floor as the emotions overwhelmed him… and he wept. 

 

…

 

Four days later, Q had not come into work. He had tried, really he had tried but Mallory had insisted that he take a few days off to recover from this shock. In truth, he was somewhat grateful for the chance to not be seen at work, because he know that a lot of his staff worried… and he looked like hell. 

 

It was on the fourth morning, when nightmares and paranoia had sent him into a restless sleep, fueled by only exhaustion when he heard a noise in his appartment. He sat up slowly and his hand slid behind the cushions. Someone was in the bedroom… their bedroom… he slipped his fingers around the glock and slowly started to walk towards it… then decided what the hell, because James had shot intruders, walked in, letting an lose an entire clip into the wall and the window and the bloody painting that James insisted that they hang over the edge of the bed. 

 

Shooting. 

 

Wild with his wayward emotions, James had to shout, had his arms around Q before he realized who the intruder was. James. Fucking James. 

 

“Why can’t you just use the key like every other boyfriend?” he whispered, as James teased the gun out of his hands and let it drop to the floor. He scooped Q up and carried him through into the front room, his phone on his ear as he called in a favor with Moneypenny and got her to call off the police. He waited until the sirens were fading away in the distance again before he turned to look at the smaller man in his arms, the shaking, frail form that was Q. 

 

“Oh, baby,” Bond said softly and tugged Q into his arms. Q nestled, and buried his face into James neck, before he burst into tears again. James held him, rocked him gently back and forth in his arms until Q dropped into an uneasy sleep. 

 

Through the rest of the day, Bond coaxed his lover through something that resembled a normal routine. He bathed him, washed his hair and then shaved Q gently. Q was distant, miserable, his mind and his head so far away from the present that it frightened Bond. 

 

Was his Q broken? As in… really broken? Bond had no idea, but he knew that he would be beside him… no matter what. 

 

He managed to coax some soup down Q, spoon feeding the younger man, who turned down his tea, and then announced that he just wanted to go to bed. James carried him to the bathroom, Q lent into him, exhausted, so that they could brush their teeth and then climb into bed. 

 

James lay awake for a long time, Q’s head on his chest. Q thought that James was asleep, otherwise he would never let himself cry. James stayed away, pretending to be asleep until Q drifted off, and then he allowed himself to do the same. 

 

It wasn’t to last. 

 

Four o’clock, he was woken by the sound of something. Panic. Terror. A punch in the ribs, but he could forgive the sleeping Q for that. 

 

Screaming. 

 

Q was screaming in his sleep, screaming over and over again for James. Bond did not hesitate to turn on the light and pull him upright in bed. Physically haul him upright, and into a crushing embrace. “It's okay…” he whispered. “It's okay, baby… You're safe now…” He had expected the first punch in the gut. 

 

The second one… he had not expected. It was a deliberate jab by a wrist that was far too small and bony for its own good.

 

Q glared at him. 

 

“How can you say that?” he all but shrieked. “I lost one, James. I failed. What if it had been you? What if I had lost you and then I had to watch you die and then I would have to try and get myself back together because then I would hunt them down and kill everyone of those fucking-” 

 

He was hysterical, and Bond was going to lose him. He lunged, pinning Q to the bed. 

 

The wide eyed shock on his face was hard for Bond to deal with. He had never forced Q’s submission before. Q had forced his and they had come out stronger for it… but this was different. Q looked terrified… and then looked furious. 

 

He lashed and kicked at James, slamming one knee up into his groin. James gasped for a moment, an echo of pain left over from Le Chiffre… and then he scooped up Q, and went to the drawer, grabbing the four sets of handcuffs. 

 

James carried him out and unceremoniously put him down, his back on the coffee table. 

 

“What are you doing?” Q yelled. 

 

The answer, the tone of the answer, shot him up. 

 

“Silence, Quartermaster, or I will gag you.” 

 

Q went silent, looking up at James, his eyes wide. 

 

His entire body shook with the tension and the anger and the pain that he was holding in it, but he was silent as James secured him on his back, practically vibrating with anger. Each wrist was secured to a cuff that had one loop around the table leg, and each ankle the same. 

 

“Now what, idiot,” Q spat. “I am still in my fucking pajamas,” But, it seemed, Bond was not finished. He went to the kitchen and Q heard the drawer open and when he was came back, he had scissors. 

 

Q froze, his eyes in the glint of the shiny metal… and there was a slight hunger in that gaze that Bond suspected that he had seen last night. This just confirmed it in his eyes, and Bond was glad that he had seized control when he had. 

 

He crouched by Q who turned his head away and stared resolutely up at the ceiling. Stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the fact that James Bond was sliding the scissors slowly up the leg of one trouser… the material split under it. 

 

Q began to cry. He had no idea why.

 

The material sliced up one trouser leg, the the other. Bond knew that they were his favorite Star Trek ones… he would buy him some more… Then through the front of the t-shirt (Doctor Who, this time) and down each arm hole.  The material came away as  James tugged it out and he swore loudly as his back hit the glass. Cold. Very cold. 

 

Cold like him, he barely felt it. 

 

Slowly, Bond crouched and wiped his tears away from his face with the remains of his t-shirt… and then dropped it over his face. Q’s world, fuzzy as it was, was plunged into blackness as the material covered his face. 

 

He refused to beg. He refused to give, not knowing what James was after. His hands tightened into fists as his hearing seemed to pick up everything. He could hear the traffic outside and the sounds of someone lighting downstairs. 

 

And where the fuck was Bond?

 

Water poured over his face.

 

Q gasped and opened his mouth to scream, but the water pouring in his mouth and he coughed. The wet cloth over his face made him instantly want to panic and he tried it meant but inhaled more water. It was cold, and shocked his system. He was suffocating, drowning… his hands shaking in panic as fear took over… 

 

The soaking wet material was ripped from his face and he drew in a deep shuddering gasp of air, sweet sweet oxygen… before he was plunged back into darkness. back into the cold and the wet…

 

Was this what death felt like? 

 

His hand shook in the cuffs and a hand went around his neck, pressing into the jugular, a gentle pressure that somehow made Q stop fighting because the fighting made it harder. He stilled, and the tight grip, the feel of his wind pipe being controlled was the most comforting thing that had happened in four days.

 

His body went still, in an effort to preserve the remaining air in his blood… and then he was rewarded by a breath of air, the hand gone, the material away as he gasped for precious life. He wept and a hand gently thumbed the tears away. 

 

He did not fight. James had shocked the fight out of his system, had shocked him into submission. 

 

“What do I have to do to let you know that I am always… always coming home to you?” James whispered and ran his hands over Q’s hair, soothing and petting. Q could not speak as the grief rose in him… the pain… He needed pain, needed to know that he was alive. He needed to know that he was alive and that he could seek redemption for his failure. 

 

He didn’t need his glasses to see when James had an idea. The agent was gone and he went to the bathroom… He came back and James could just make out the green first aid kit. Then he went to the bedroom and came back with the crop. 

 

Q licked his lips, watching with wide, hollow eyes. Empty. He had torn the fight out of him, and now someone needed to rebuild him. It took him a moment to realize that Bond was speaking to him, tapping his cheek lightly. He looked up at James. 

 

“I am going to hurt you, baby… and then I am going to make you come.” 

 

It was a statement that sent shivers through his body in a way that he could not stop.

 

“What are your safe words?” 

 

Q blinked. What? No, he just wanted-

 

The crop flicked against his balls and he screamed, his body rising up off the table. Blood pounded through his veins and he felt the pain morph into arousal. The beginnings of, anyway. He looked down at his cock, laying on his belly. It twitched with interest. 

 

“Mercy for a break… Yellow for close to my limit” Q whispered, looking up at James. “Red for stop…” 

 

James nodded and he crouched beside Q. 

 

“You need to keep very still for this… At any moment, say the word and I will stop, okay?” 

 

Q nodded and James proceeded to swab over his chest with iodine, creating a large, brown stain. The feel of it filled Q’s nostrils as he watched with morbid fascination as James took out one of the sterile scalpels out the packet and looked down at Q. 

 

Bound and naked, he was almost fully hard from the sight of his lover standing over him with a fucking scalpel. 

 

He nodded. Q needed the pain. 

 

When the scalpel split the skin, Q screamed his release. It was not a physical thing, it was as if the slicing through layers of skin had sliced through layers of himself and he screamed the pain and the guilt as his lover carved a tiny, very neat 0 in his chest. 

 

The second 0 had him reduced to sobs. He did not call a halt, there was no fear in that. It was the fear in him that he knew that if James stopped, he would dink, he would fall away. He cried for the double-oh that he failed to save and cried for himself, cried for the innocence that had to lose. Cried because he had become arrogant, feeling as if he could not lose. He had though. He had lost it all. 

 

Closing his eyes, he fell silent as James finished off the carving of his flesh with the tiny seven. Bond stood back and Q lay there. 

 

Bleeding. 

 

The warm trickle of blood, the scent of metal in the air… It was a heady scent. The blood flowed, it did not poor...It stung like hell, but he was high on endorphin's, hard as a fucking rock. 

 

The crop flicked against his balls. Q made a high pitched, worried sound as he strained to see. No… he was too hard… He moaned and thrashed in the bonds, the word mercy almost on his lips, but he never said it. The crop began to move over his testicles, in light, biting flicks, a rhythm that made him squirm, made the blood run over his chest and down his sides. The coffee table would be ruined. 

 

The crop never stopped moving, only seemed to get that bit faster, that bit harder… it flicked against his anus. He bucked, whining. 

 

Sound came from him, a steady stream of tearful curses. James had broken him… not completely, but damn near. He squirmed uselessly as he tried to get away from that crop, tried to get away from the pressure that was building inside of him. He fought it… He fought it with every fiber of his being. 

 

Bond had no mercy and Q asked for none. 

 

The crop came down, came down with the force of a double-oh agent behind it and Q howled. Once. Twice. 

 

“Give it to me, Q!”

 

Three. 

 

The orgasm tore through him and Q let out a harsh scream, and fell back, trembling and crying as wave after wave went through him. He dissolved in a trembling wreck, crying and sobbing, Bond was holding his head now talking to him, telling him to let go… Q could only nod and let the darkness take him. 

 

Dying. 

 

When he awoke the next day, he woke to find his chest with a gauze stuck to it, his body clean and his head feeling clear and his balls feeling sore. He sat up slowly and winced as his swollen testicle moved against the sheet. 

 

“Good morning, babe,” James said as he came in, holding two large cups of tea, on in his favorite Scrabble mug. 

 

Q smiled… almost shy. 

 

“Hello, love.”

 

“How are you feeling?” 

 

Q shifted. 

 

“Like I have blue balls… but in the bruised way… Not sure if its good or bad yet...” 

 

James grinned. The man had no shame, and Q had to roll his eyes. 

 

“I feel better… tired. I feel… still. Calm almost,” James grin faded a little and he nodded. 

 

“Q… I want your initial on me…” James said suddenly, and Q nearly dropped the mug in shock. 

 

“What?” he said, and James nodded at the first aid kit at the side of the table. 

 

“Are you sure?” Q asked him, realizing that he was tearing up again. 

 

James nodded. 

 

“I can’t always promise to come back… I will always try my hardest… But we both know that one day I may not be good enough, fast enough, or strong enough… if that is the case then I want a little bit of you with me always.” 

 

Q nodded and felt himself grin, eyes full of tears,  as he reached for the box, and pull it towards them…

 

Living. 

 

…

  
  


“No distinguishing scars,” M said as he looked over his desk at Bond. “No distinguishing marks and you have a fucking Q over your heart.” 

 

James did not bat an eyelid, the man simply smiled at his boss.

 

M slammed the medical report down on his desk. 

 

“Couldn’t you have just bought a ring?” 

  
  
  
  



End file.
